


Full Capacity, Incremental Intake

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Desperation, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Medical Experimentation, Omorashi, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA used the Winter Soldier as a lab rat as well as a weapon.  Some of their experiments had more scientific merit than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Capacity, Incremental Intake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=968523#cmt968523) on the HYDRA Trash meme: _I just found upon a psych study that says that (up until a certain point) people make better decisions when they need to pee. This sounds like a perfect research project for the distinguished team over at HYDRA's Trash Institute._
> 
> _I want to read about how, as a part of his training, WS has to do stuff like disarm security systems or stake out a target for hours while trying to preserve what little dignity he has. Meanwhile, back at the lab, scientists are watching him squirm and taking notes while trying not to crack up._
> 
> _100 BONUS GARBAGEBUX if you have an almost-made-it scenario where WS fumbles w/ the zipper or the bathroom door is locked and he ends up blinking back tears of shame as pee runs down his legs._
> 
> For links to information about this study and way too much thought on my end regarding the Soldier's anatomy, see the closing author's note.

The zipper is broken.

The Soldier is the first to notice this. The pull tab is dented, twisted nearly one hundred and eighty degrees out of shape, and the teeth are similarly distorted, crooked and in some places pulling free from the fabric.

There is a technician waiting for the Soldier to dress. She watches as he struggles with the closure of the tactical pants and leans down to examine the damage. “What did you _do_ yesterday?” she asks.

The Soldier doesn’t remember yesterday. He rests his hands on the examination table as she attempts to close the zipper.

“He yanked it left-handed,” Commander Rumlow says. The commander is standing at a supply table, placing a number of water bottles within his pack. “Like he was trying to start a lawn mower.”

“Bet that was really something,” the technician mutters. She is not making much progress in the fastening.

“You could have seen it, if Rollins knew how to work a camera.” Rumlow zips the pack without issue, tilting his head toward the second in command, who is seated in a chair along the wall.

Rollins gestures with his hand. It is not a sign the Soldier has been taught, but he recognizes it nonetheless as crude and contemptuous. “It’s not my fault the battery was on its last leg.”

“Probably should have taken that into account before you filmed him sitting in a van for an hour.”

“I was building suspense,” Rollins says. “You’re just bitter because you lost the bet.”

Rumlow slides the straps of the pack onto his shoulders. “I won’t today.”

“Yeah, this isn’t happening,” the technician says. She is still tugging ineffectively at the Soldier’s fly. “He needs a different pair of pants.”

“Here.” Rumlow walks to them, his broad, callused hands taking the place of the technician’s thin, dark ones. “Hold the fabric straight, Soldier.” He eases the slider up as the Soldier pulls the canvas flush against his stomach. It takes perhaps thirty seconds, but the commander closes the zipper and fastens the button above it. That done, he steps aside as the technicians begin applying the adhesive pads for the portable heart monitor.

The head researcher approaches as they are strapping the monitor’s transmitter to the Soldier’s chest. “Be careful with the camera this time,” she tells Rollins. “Don’t record anything beyond the introduction and the status updates until there’s noticeable duress.”

Rollins does not make the hand gesture to her. He only nods. The light on the camera blinks on.

“October nineteenth, 2012,” the researcher announces as the Soldier slides his sweater over the monitoring equipment. “Oh nine hundred hours. This is the second test: Full capacity, incremental intake. Dr. Liang presiding. Subject’s current intake: zero milliliters.” She glances at the Soldier, who is now fastening his combat gear, and then to the technician. “Has he voided?”

“Took him to the bathroom before he came in here.”

“Subject will consume two hundred and fifty milliliters every fifteen minutes until full capacity of fifteen hundred milliliters is reached,” Liang tells the camera. She faces the Soldier a second time. “Status report.”

“Functional.”

“Any pain or discomfort?”

The Soldier shakes his head. He doesn’t mention the ache through his body. He could say that he can’t remember the technician leading him to the bathroom, but he does not. These are normal, accepted effects from the cognitive wipes. They are not noteworthy.

“Administering initial two hundred and fifty milliliters,” Liang says.

Rumlow handles the Soldier a water bottle. It is small and he consumes its contents in one long swallow. He sets the bottle aside and the light on the camera blinks out.

“All right, get him to the van.”

The commander takes the Soldier’s arm and begins steering him toward the door. “Don’t forget,” he says to Rollins, “the pool’s double what it was yesterday.”

“So you’ll bitch twice as much when you have to pay up,” Rollins says. He’s taking the camera with them.

“In your dreams.”

“Are you betting on our research?” Liang asks, arms crossed.

Both Rumlow and Rollins pause. “Well—”

“You better include my team in tomorrow’s wagers,” she says. “What sides are you on?”

“Rollins says he makes it,” Rumlow tells her. “I say no way. What about you, doctor?”

The doctor’s eyes flick up and down the Soldier again. She smiles. “Oh yeah. No way.”

*

The van is not moving.

They have been seated for over ten minutes. The first five were spent on the mission briefing. It’s a training exercise: they are traveling to another of HYDRA’s facilities, whereupon he is to non-fatally shoot a target. Between exiting the van and arriving at the vantage point where he will shoot, the Soldier will have to deal with three doors secured by separate electronic security systems, as well as three guards whom he will face all together. He is not authorized to shoot the guards but he can stab or slash them, provided he does not inflict mortal wounds. It will be a very easy mission.

Once it begins.

The briefing did not include a time frame for the mission. By the Soldier’s estimates, it should not take more than an hour after their arrival at the facility. He knows it will take less than six hours altogether because the clothing set provided for this mission included underwear. On missions lasting over six hours, he is given MAGs to reduce the possibility of distraction or duress.

Perhaps they are awaiting the arrival of other team members or equipment. Perhaps this is part of the experiment. The nature of the research he is assisting in was not disclosed to the Soldier that he can recall. It may be that they are testing his reactions. His patience.

The Soldier would score highly in such a test. He is very patient.

Rumlow’s watch beeps and he opens the pack, nudging Rollins. “Got the camera ready?”

Rollins taps a button and the red light returns. “Action.”

Rumlow retrieves another bottle from the pack and hands it to the Soldier. “Oh nine hundred fifteen.” he says to the camera. “Drink.”

The Soldier does. When he is through, Rumlow replaces the empty bottle in the pack and addresses the camera a second time. “Total ingestion: five hundred milliliters out of fifteen hundred. Status report.”

“Functional,” says the Soldier.

“Any pain or discomfort?”

A shake of the head. The camera switches off and the van does not move.

Probably he is ingesting some sort of flavorless chemical and they are waiting for it to take effect before he begins the mission. The Soldier is given a number of substances when he comes out of cryo to restore him to optimal functioning as quickly as possible. If he strains his memory, he believes he can recall previous tests of such substances: retching in a lab and staggering around a base, vision swimming.

Another fifteen minutes, another bottle of water, and a third status report later, and the van begins to move.

“Here we go,” Rumlow says. “He should start to be real unhappy real quick.” The van shakes and the commander winces. “These shocks aren’t gonna help either.”

Rollins laughs. “Please. He’s been shocked in the head without losing it before. This is nothing.”

“Spoken like a man about to lose a bet,” Rumlow says. He shifts the pack and the Soldier can hear liquid within it. He’s ingested seven hundred and fifty milliliters now, so there must be three water bottles remaining.

The Soldier has yet to feel any chemical alterations. Perhaps the water is being used as a control. Or maybe the facility will be very hot and they do not want him to dehydrate. They are always thorough with his maintenance.

“Yeah, right. He made it through yesterday when he had to chug it all at once.”

“That was yesterday.” Rumlow is staring at the Soldier. He looks pleased about something. The test must be going well. “Don’t you know anything about anatomy?”

“Oh, here it comes.” Rollins shakes his head. He leans against the wall of the van, stretching his legs across the floor. “Enlighten me, doctor.”

“You put too much strain on a muscle and it weakens. Which oughta be common knowledge to anyone in special ops, but you always did suck at your job.”

Rollins punches Rumlow in the shoulder. The Soldier tenses on reflex—he is trained to defend the commander as long as it does not interfere with the mission—but there are no further offensive maneuvers. And at the tensing, the Soldier is distracted by a new sensation.

There is pressure in his abdomen. It is not urgent, but the Soldier is aware that there is more water filtering through his system and more still in the commander’s pack. Depending on the duration of the ride, it may become a distraction. The Soldier shifts his thighs together. He will not delay the mission by requiring them to stop. He can endure. Anyway, if they are in transit that long, surely his handlers will need to stop as well. He resolves to put it out of his mind, focusing on the conversation beside him.

“Sure,” Rollins is saying, but he’s shaking his head. “And that’s why he lasted through yesterday after all the capacity tests on Wednesday, right? Bull.”

“Super soldier stamina takes a while to break,” Rumlow says. “Look, when I was in high school I took a girl to a KISS concert, all right?”

“And you’ve never had a date since?”

This time it’s Rumlow doing the punching. “Fuck off. Anyway, she was _wasted._ Having trouble walking in a straight line by the time we left. And all they had at the venue were these port-a-pots and she wouldn’t touch ‘em. Then there was a wreck when we were driving back and we must have been stuck in traffic for three hours.”

“With only you as company. Surprised she made it through the night.”

“Shut up. The point is, she lasted through all that until we got to a gas station. Shaking and whining and crying, but she made it. Then she came back to my place—way too trashed to go home, she said she’d rather be out all night than have her parents see her like that—and she had, I don’t know, maybe half a can of Sprite. And then I woke up the next morning with wet sheets.”

“So what you’re saying is you lured unsuspecting girls into your house to blame them for your bedwetting,” Rollins says.

“What I’m saying,” says the commander, elbowing Rollins in the stomach, “is that the body only takes some much torture before it gives up.”

“And _I’m_ saying is he’s not a drunk schoolgirl.” Rollins gestures at the Soldier, who stares down at the floor. “Also, you’re an idiot. Yesterday you said he couldn’t hold out because missing an arm would make the water circulate through him too fast.”

“You’re just pissy ‘cause the doctor’s on my side.”

“She’s never seen him in the field. She doesn’t know what he can withstand.”

This conversation is not helping. The pressure has increased to a slow, dull ache. The Soldier’s thighs are locked together now. He shifts almost imperceptibly; the buckle of his belt seems to dig into his stomach even though he hasn’t consumed nearly enough liquid to cause distention. For a moment the change in posture provides relief, but the vibrations of the van and the seconds slipping by are quick to counteract the benefit. There is no immediate risk, the Soldier knows, of involuntarily voiding, but his mind has recognized the possibility and his mind will not stop.

He is programmed to consider every possible variable of a mission, and all he can do now is think of the ways this complication could doom the expedition. This cannot be an intended effect of the liquid consumption as he has not been outfitted to reduce the distraction. They mean him to endure. And it has been less than an hour. He has been taught to control such impulses for up to six. He cannot comprehend why his body is reacting this way. Surely he has taken hydration on previous missions without such difficulty. Now his performance will be affected and whatever vital research the doctors hope to gain will be tainted.

The commander’s watch gives another alert.

“Oh nine hundred forty-five,” Rumlow says, and the Soldier does not flinch.

He cannot refuse the bottle. He does not try. He is already misbehaving and to add outright defiance onto that is unthinkable. The Soldier does not drink as quickly this time. His throat wants to constrict, but he will not allow it. His heart is pounding in his ears, in time with the faint throbbing in the pit of his stomach, and he realizes as he drinks that his pulse has accelerated. He thinks of monitor strapped to his chest, recording his heart rate. He is skewing the data. The Soldier’s face burns.

“One thousand milliliters out of fifteen hundred,” Rumlow says. “Status report.”

The Soldier stares at the floor, trying to keep his breathing level. “Functional.” And that’s true. He is functional and he will not permit himself to be anything less.

“Any pain or discomfort?”

Shame is an important function. It’s a necessary learning tool. The Soldier is not allowed anything that does not aid his performance, and that includes the flush to his skin and the twisting in his stomach. He _ought_ to be ashamed. He is disrupting the experiment. “I—”

“Soldier.”

“Discomfort,” the Soldier says. His voice is small. He is intensely aware of the camera recording him.

“Yeah? What kind of discomfort?” the commander presses. The Soldier cannot see his face but it sounds as though he is smiling.

The Soldier cannot speak.

Rumlow reaches out, taking the Soldier by the jaw and slowly raising his head. “We’re doing very important research,” he says. There’s a twitch to his mouth but his eyes are still and dark. “And to do that effectively, we need all the information you can give us. You don’t want to waste everyone’s hard work, do you?”

The Soldier shakes his head as much as the commander’s hold will allow.

“Then be good and answer me. What kind of discomfort?”

“Pressure,” the Soldier says. He has not been instructed to maintain eye contact, so his gaze drops back down. “In the pelvic region. Preceding…release.”

“Yeah?” The sound of a smile is back in Rumlow’s voice. “You gotta piss?”

A nod. There’s perspiration beginning along the Soldier’s hairline. His face is hot and he wishes he had the mask to conceal it, to hide the pathetic way he’s biting his lip. His legs shake involuntarily. It relieves a bit of the tension and he continues the motion.

“How bad?”

“I—moderate duress. It’s a distraction,” the Soldier says. “Potentially to the detriment of my performance.”

For a moment the commander does not speak. The terrible admission hangs heavy in the air.

Rumlow releases his face, leaning back against the wall. The camera is still recording. “So you think you’d do a better job if we let you go potty?”

The Soldier refuses to let his eyes wrench shut. He nods.

“Permission denied,” Rumlow says. “We’re on very tight schedule and you’re gonna control yourself until we’re done, understood? Behave.”

The Soldier nods, miserable and resigned. He continues jostling his legs as he has received no reprimand for doing so. He tries straightening his back. Then slumping down. Then doubling over.

“Cross your legs,” Rollins suggests. The camera is off again.

The Soldier does, feeling a moment’s respite.

“Don’t worry,” Rollins says. “We’re only half an hour out from here.”

*

It does not take half an hour to reach the facility. It takes twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes is more than long enough for the ache within him to progress from dull to sharp. His body cannot be still and Soldier’s heartbeat and rate of perspiration continue to increase. He is exhausting himself before the mission can even begin but his handlers do not seem agitated. They appear almost happy and the Soldier cannot decipher that. He doesn’t try to. He is preoccupied.

He is able to stand when they reach the facility and the Soldier cannot tell if that makes the pressure better or worse. He is more aware of it now that he is supporting his own weight, and he wouldn’t have thought it possible to be _more_ aware of that throbbing, persistent need.

The Soldier does not stand as much as he writhes, hips shifting involuntarily, rocking his weight on his feet. He bites his lip until he tastes blood and halts abruptly: not for concern of damage, but for fear of swallowing anything more.

Rumlow is carrying the Soldier’s rifle and communicating with the researchers via headset. “Yeah, there’s duress…I’d say thirty minutes ago? No, not the whole time, but it’d be about identical to the footage from yesterday…”

The heat in the Soldier’s face increases. He is burning, shaking, and briefly he wonders if prolonging this state could have adverse physical effects. It doesn’t matter. He has a mission and his own functioning is secondary.

“Turn on the camera,” Rumlow instructs Rollins. “Just keep filming from here on out, they said.”

They usher the Soldier to the entry door, the first electronic lock he is meant to disable. The system’s panelboard is to the right of the doorframe and its own door has been recently replaced: the paint does not match and there are fresh gouges in the metal of the board, presumably where hinges were torn away.

“Wait,” Rumlow says when the Soldier extends his hand. “We’re timing this.” He readies his watch. “Go.”

The Soldier does not check to see if the board is locked; he twists his left wrist and the door crumples back like tissue paper. His eyes dart over the wiring inside and he fights the compulsion to tear it all away to save time. It would disable the lock but also trigger the alarm, and that is not his objective.

His right hand, the more precise of the two, is flying through the wiring and circuits, moving more on muscle memory than conscious thought. His left hand is at first braced against the wall, steadying himself, but a sudden and all-encompassing wave of need strikes him and his fist instinctively drops down to press against his groin.

This is a mistake. His left hand is kept at a temperature just above freezing to best maintain its circuitry.

The Soldier whimpers, tugging his hand away, clenching twice as hard to compensate for the loss of support. His stomach is taut. He can feel the abdominal guarding even through the layers of leather and Kevlar.

There is a click as the lock disengages. The Soldier opens the door with such force that the handle breaks off in his hand.

“See, it increases his speed but the property damage—” Rollins begins.

The Soldier doesn’t hear past that point. The entryway is guarded. Three men, combat gear. The briefing said no fatal injuries.

There’s no use in throwing a knife: their attire will stop any blade beyond a close stab wound. He still has the door handle—dented with the imprint of his fingers—and he throws that, striking the nearest of the three in the face. There’s a crunch and a splatter of blood. A broken nose will not put the man down for the count, but it does buy time.

He kicks the nearest assailant. The Soldier kicks very hard and the man goes flying into the juncture of the wall and ceiling with enough force to shatter the concrete. Fractured vertebrae. Possibly fractured pelvis, judging from the angle of impact. Out of commission.

The Soldier failed to take into account the strain of a kick. No amount of abdominal guarding is enough to overcome the white hot agony that pulses through him and he doubles over as the third assailant swings. The blow glances his shoulder. He straightens, punches, delivers a second kick to the side of his opponent’s knee. The man crumples and the Soldier tries to steady his ragged breathing. Nothing matters but the mission. His body will wait, _must_ wait.

There are arms wrapping around him from behind. The first man, the one with the broken nose. His body is jolted; the man is trying to slam him against the wall. Teeth gritted— _can’t hold it can’t_ can’t _must_ —the Soldier throws his head back, trying to strike the injured face again. The man must have anticipated such and shifted accordingly, because the Soldier hits nothing but air.

The third assailant is back up. The Soldier kicks out but the man sidesteps the blow, driving his fist into the Soldier’s stomach.

For a second the Soldier is blind. He is deaf. He feels nothing but burning and the burning whites out his vision, rings in his ears. There’s a noise far off, a miserable howling. His throat aches and he realizes the sound comes from him. The second lasts an eternity.

Then it’s over. The Soldier throws himself forward, flipping the man along with his body into a roll. He is trembling, eyes blurring from exertion, but the man’s grip loosens upon impact and the Soldier’s hand is free. He grabs a knife, arcs it back. He strikes somewhere in his opponent’s face and hears shrieking. The third man is over him, aiming a kick at his ribs, but the Soldier launches himself into the leg still planted on the floor, knocking the assailant off balance. The Soldier grabs the leg that would have kicked him as the man staggers, slicing through the boot and into his Achilles.

He collapses onto the ground. He won’t be able to walk but the Soldier arcs his knife twice more, severing the tendons of the man’s wrists to be sure of the incapacitation.

The man with the broken nose has gotten to his knees and grabs the Soldier’s throat, hauling him back in. The Soldier drives the knife into his gut. His left hand connects with the man’s face and the jaw snaps under his knuckles.

Three down. The Soldier does not rise. He doubts his legs would support him. He is doubled over, hands pressed to his groin, heart pounding in his ears and between his legs. The flesh under his hands is hard, erect from the pressure ever-growing, pulsing within him. His head rests against the floor, the concrete cold against his burning skin.

Rumlow’s watch beeps.

“Good news,” says the commander. He sets the Soldier’s rifle on the floor as he unzips the pack. “Last water bottle.”

The Soldier stands. He does not think to protest: his mind has gone to static. He drinks, retching once. He forces himself to swallow it down before even a drop can slip from his mouth. He thinks, absurdly, that this is what drowning feels like even though he has drowned and he knows it isn’t. His eyes are watering from strain and a tear runs down his face. The sensation of sliding water does not help in the least.

The commander is pressing a hand to the earpiece of his headset. “Got it,” he says, stepping closer to the Soldier. “You disconnected the transmitter on the heart monitor,” he says, undoing the first of the straps on the tactical vest. “We have to reconnect it before we go on.”

It cannot possibly take hours for Rumlow to open all of the straps, but that is how it registers in the Soldier’s current perception of time. Perhaps the commander would be quicker if the Soldier could be still, but that’s beyond him. He lacks the control and his face burns with that knowledge, but there’s no changing it.

“Status report,” the commander says, sliding his hand under the Soldier’s sweater. His skin is slick with sweat and it’s cold now that there’s air hitting his stomach, further fueling his trembling.

“F—fu—functional,” the Soldier stammers, teeth clenched.

“That so?” Rumlow withdraws his hand and begins refastening the straps. “Then why are you crying?” He steps aside, glancing to Rollins. “You’re getting this, right? In close-up?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you crying?” the commander repeats.

“Pain,” the Soldier says. His right hand is clutching his flesh and he’s not beyond shame but he cannot stop.

“You injured?” Rumlow asks.

“N—No.”

“So what hurts?” There’s a light in the commander’s eyes, a twist to his mouth that makes the Soldier grind his teeth.

“I—I need,” he says. He’s overstepping his bounds and he ought to be severely punished, but he has no more control over his mouth than he does the rest of his wretched, shaking body. “Please—I can’t—I—”

Rumlow smiles, strokes the Soldier’s hair. It’s as drenched with sweat as the rest of him, plastered to his fevered face. “What did I tell you in the van, Soldier?”

“P—p—permission denied.”

“Listen,” Rumlow says. “If you’re good and you finish the rest of the mission without whining, I don’t care if you whip it out and piss right where you make your shot. But if you complain again then I will make you hold it until we get back to base, got it?”

The Soldier nods. His throat is dry and tight and he cannot speak.

“Good. Now get moving. We’re almost done.”

And they are. All the Soldier need do is disable two more locks and then take aim. He does not even need to search for the target; they tell him the man will be forced into the Soldier’s line of fire once they arrive. The test is of his accuracy in making the shot, not his tracking abilities.

It’s very simple. Or would be, if the Solider could move.

His steps are hobbled by need, small and ginger. His hand remains pressed against his swollen flesh, struggling to impede the growing flood rushing through him. He feels moisture against his thighs and freezes before realizing it’s perspiration. His eyes are still watering and he’s bitten through his tongue; his body is releasing every fluid save for the one sending flares of pain through him.

It takes ten minutes to reach the second door.

“Wait,” Rumlow tells the Soldier, pressing his hand to the earpiece again. “You want what? For the whole time’s he’s—seriously?” A pause. The commander glances at the Soldier and sighs. “Fine. But my dry cleaning better be in your research budget. Rollins, you’re timing this one.”

The commander walks up behind the Soldier. There is less than a foot of space between them. He settles his arm around the Soldier’s hips, steadying. “Your mission is to disable the lock,” Rumlow reminds him. “Nothing else. Understood?”

The Soldier nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Go.”

The Soldier rips back the door of the panelboard. He has just enough time to register that this lock has a different arrangement than the first door.

Then the commander’s other hand is pressing against his stomach.

The Soldier thrashes. Broken, panting moans force their way from his mouth. He wants to strike Rumlow, wants to scream, wants to release. He wants more than anything. But he has orders. He has a mission. So the Soldier stills himself as much as he is able, both hands yanking at the wiring as the commander’s hand massages relentlessly against his bladder. He is sobbing, writhing, and it’s too much. He can feel wet heat trickling out, he can feel his body giving way—

The lock clicks. Rollins calls the time. Rumlow steps back.

The loss of contact, the incremental lessening of the agony, is such a shock in and of itself that the Soldier nearly loses control. He doubles over, head pressed against the wall, steadying his shaking body. The crotch of his pants is damp. But he’s holding. He doesn’t understand how, but he hasn’t failed yet. Not completely.

“Come on.” The commander ruffles his hair. “Let’s go.”

When they reach the third door, a lifetime later, the commander pauses again, hand on the headset. “What? No, I don’t know if he’s ticklish.”

And they find he is.

*

Stairs.

Between the Soldier and the vantage point lies a flight of stairs.

The Soldier vaguely remembers a performance evaluation in which he was made to navigate obstacles—among them, a flight of stairs—with two broken legs. That test, he thinks, was infinitely preferable to this. Any of the experiments he remembers are preferable to this. Even the one with blowtorch. His entire being is reduced to this stinging, unceasing need.

His pants are wet.

They were damp after the second door, after the commander pressed on his stomach. At the third door the commander’s fingers spidered over the Soldier’s ribs and now his pants are wet. His concentration failed for two seconds. Two seconds was enough to wet the crotch of his pants entirely, as well as a few inches of instep of the left leg. It did not reduce the urges in the slightest. The tension is still increasing by the second.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Rollins says, “how much pain would you say you’re in?”

They have not noticed the state of the Soldier’s pants, perhaps due to the dark fabric or perhaps because they are behind him and from there he is mostly dry. He does not mention it. They have not asked for a status report and he does not trust himself to speak without begging.

But he must speak now. The Soldier bites through his lip again. “Wh—which…’s worst?”

“Ten.”

Ten is what the Soldier wants to say. He is doubled over halfway up the stairs, both hands clenched between his legs, panting. He perceives nothing of his body beyond the pain. But he is already disrupting the research with his failure to control himself, and he will not provide data without proper consideration. Maybe this doesn’t hurt as much as the chair. Maybe this isn’t as awful as the time with the pliers. “Eight.”

“That’s not so bad,” Rollins says. His hand brushes the Soldier’s shoulder. “You’ve got this, buddy. I believe in you.”

The Soldier cannot answer. His face is already wet with tears of exertion—so much fluid providing no relief—but as he blinks, more spills out. He is failing as a weapon, as a test subject, and yet they have not cast him aside. Maybe the mission is not beyond salvaging. He exhales, straightens as much as the pain allows, and carries on.

“How many of these tests are we doing?” Rollins asks. “Total?”

“There’s two more after this,” says Rumlow. “And they might want to redo the first one since they didn’t get all the footage. Plus the control, so at least five. Why?”

“Five tests, five wipes. What are the odds they’ll implement any policy changes based on this?”

“Probably zero. Even if they decide he’s noticeably more effective when he’s about to piss himself, you can’t maintain that on long missions without risking water intoxication. And you can’t just throw him in MAGs for this—he’d have no incentive to hold. So you’d need someone on clean-up.”

“Yeah,” Rollins says. “I figured. How come R&D gets funding when they want to be perverts and STRIKE gets suspensions?”

“Maybe Pierce jacks off to these tapes.”

Rollins laughs.

There’s a pause before the commander speaks again. “Hell, tell me that camera’s not still on.”

“My hand’s blocking the mic. You think I’d have asked while it was picking up my voice? I’m not an idiot. Unlike some.”

“Fuck off,” Rumlow says.

“By some I mean you,” Rollins says.

The Soldier hears nothing of their conversation past that point because he’s reached the second floor.

They are at the opposite end of the facility from where they entered. They are overlooking the first floor lobby, where his target will arrive. The balcony they stand on is lined with Plexiglas partitions and the Soldier leans against one, panting, taking in the area below. The concrete he is standing on is stained.

“It’s that door,” Rumlow says, pointing down at the opposite wall. The door is made of frosted glass. “Here.” He extends the rifle. “They want you to shoot him in the liver, got it? Aim for the liver.”

The Soldier stares at the weapon. He is extending one trembling hand to take it when the realization hits him: he needs both hands to aim the rifle.

He cannot stop holding himself without releasing.

He is frozen, horrified, and Rumlow seems to realize the problem just as the Soldier does. He laughs. “Looks like I’m gonna win this time.”

“You wish,” Rollins says.

The Soldier must take the rifle. The mission will fail, the experiment will be ruined. He must. But he _can’t_ , can’t keep control without using his hands. He has to maintain the pressure. He must—

Struck by inspiration, the Soldier yanks the rifle from the commander’s hand, dropping to his knees. The impact is forceful but he does not feel it, writhing, twisting his body until the left hand, still like a vice at his crotch, is pinned between the concrete and his groin. He props himself up on his elbows, keeping his stomach from pressing down. Pressure. The floor can provide pressure. He can aim and fire through the partition, he can complete the mission, provided he can sustain the necessary pressure when he draws his hand away. The Soldier grinds his hips down, crossing his legs at the ankles. He slides his hand free and it’s _not enough_ and he rocks his hips again, grunting. And again. And again. The floor is insufficient but the friction sends blood flowing where his flesh lies half-hard between his legs and _that_ , that lets him maintain control.

“Holy fuck,” Rumlow says. Then, aside, “Yeah, we’re ready. Send in the target.”

“I don’t know about Pierce,” Rollins says, “but I guarantee _someone’s_ gonna be jacking off to this footage."

The Soldier readies the gun, aiming with the left hand as it is the only part of him that can be still. His pelvis continues to shove against the ground, frantic, arrhythmic. He will bruise. It doesn’t matter. Where is the target? The target should be here, must be here _now_. The Soldier cannot sustain this. It is a temporary fix, a patch wrapped around a splintering component.

He braces his right hand on the floor for added leverage but his palm is slick with sweat and he slips. The Soldier cannot right himself before his stomach, firm as the concrete beneath him and aching, pushes against the floor.

Three seconds, this time. Three seconds of full force, uncontrolled release. His pants are flooded with heat, the fabric weighing down, dragging against his thighs as it saturates. What blood isn’t caught between his legs has rushed to his face and the Soldier is dizzy. Above all he feels relief, enough that his eyes flutter back in his head, but he has orders and he has a mission and he forces his body to cease with a strangled cry.

There’s an odd crowing of a laugh behind him. It’s the commander.

“He pissed his pants,” Rumlow said, and if the Soldier’s face goes any hotter, he fears his skin will ignite. “I win.”

“He did not!”

“Look!”

The Soldier resumes slamming his hips against the floor. Every jolt of motion forces breath from him, and his breaths are no longer silent pants. “ _Ah ah ah._ ”

“That’s _sweat_.”

“Are you blind?” There are footsteps the Soldier barely registers, his world centered on the door and the _need_ , and then the commander’s boot is at his knees, nudging his legs apart. The Soldier yelps. A hand brushes his damp thigh. “Fucking _look_.” The boot retreats. “That’s not sweat.”

More footsteps, and the sound of a scuffle. Rollin’s voice. “Don’t touch me after you just—”

“Admit I won and I won’t.”

“You don’t win unless he floods it all, intermittent leaking doesn’t count!”

“You said he wouldn’t piss his pants,” Rumlow says. “You never brought quantity into it.”

“It’s common fucking sense—”

There is a silhouette at the door, the perfect outline of a body behind the frosted glass. The doorknob is turning but the Soldier doesn’t wait. He aims, fires. The recoil pushes his stomach to the ground again and the Soldier howls, twisting to his side as he brings his hand between his legs. _Not enough not enough not enough._

Rumlow is up, hand to his earpiece. Someone is crouching over the body shrieking on the first floor, confirming the hit. The Soldier’s free hand grabs the commander’s ankle. _I don’t care if you whip it out and piss right where you make your shot_ , the commander had said. He’d said. “ _Please_ ,” the Soldier spits, teeth clenched. “P—please, please—”

“Go,” Rumlow says.

There’s a litany of gratitude falling from the Soldier’s lips as he pulls himself to his knees. Violent tremors rack his being. The world goes white beyond him. There is no mission, no commander, no camera catching every second of his shame. There is nothing save for this horrible urge that will finally, finally be relieved.

The Soldier tugs the zipper and the zipper does not move.

He stares. His mind can’t process the complication.

He tugs again and the zipper _does not move._

“ _Oh_.” This morning, the technician tugging at his pants, Rumlow worrying the slider up the twisted teeth. “ _Oh_.” The Soldier hauls himself to his feet, pulling on the damp waistband to draw the fabric taut as the commander had. The belt feels so tight around his body, as if it could cut through him. He pushes at the slider, slow and firm. Another surge shakes him and his hand spasms, yanking. The pull tab rips off in his grip.

The Soldier resolves to tear the zipper loose just as his body gives way.

“ _Oh_!” He feels it before he sees it, a rush of warmth down his legs, pooling in the soles of his boots. The fabric goes dark, then dripping. There’s a puddle growing between his legs, splashing on the stained floor. His knees are buckling and he thinks he’s going to fall—he can’t hold himself up and his pants are already soaked, so what does it matter?—but the commander has his arms, supporting him. He’s still pissing.

The Soldier is vaguely aware that he is shaking. It’s not from strain anymore; it’s relief. His eyes are fluttering again, his head slumping back against Rumlow’s shoulder. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. “ _Ohh_.” He has no comparison for this sensation. He’s never been allowed pleasure. The Soldier lets his eyes fall shut, the unfamiliar, astonishing feeling washing over him. It lasts forever and not long enough.

“That’s not fair,” Rollins says once it’s over and the Soldier is struggling to catch his breath. “That’s a wardrobe malfunction. He’d have made it.”

The Soldier’s eyes open. He tilts his head, trying to ground himself, and the first thing he sees is the red light of the camera.

The relief is fleeting. Shame, familiar and overpowering, takes its place. The Soldier immediately drops his gaze to the floor, but he’s standing in a puddle and his pants are still dripping. It’s no better of a visual.

“I already won and you know it,” Rumlow says. “Next time, define your terms before you get your panties in a bunch about losing.” 

There are tears in his eyes again and the Soldier blinks rapidly to clear them. It was one thing to cry from strain. Humiliation is different, weak. And he’s been weak enough. He can hold this back, at least.

“Come on, Soldier.” Rumlow still has his arms, steering him forward. His body, exhausted and twisting with self-loathing, is slow to respond. “Back to the van. What’s wrong with you?”

His piss is already going cold on his legs. His drenched socks are splashing against the puddles in his boots with each step. “The research,” he says, voice almost too small for his own ears to perceive. “I ruined the research.” He must have. The distressed state his body was in could not have been the intended effect. What purpose would it serve?

For a second the commander only stares at him. Then he laughs. “Well, you can make up for that tomorrow, can’t you?”

Tomorrow. The Soldier will be given another chance to prove himself, to set things right. He will be better tomorrow. He must. The Soldier nods, allowing himself to be led.

“Tomorrow,” Rollins mutters, switching off the camera, “we’re getting him new pants.”

**Author's Note:**

> The study in question is "Inhibitory Spillover: Increased Urination Urgency Facilitates Impulse Control in Unrelated Domains" by Mirjam Tuk _et al_ in a 2011 issue of _Psychological Science._ You can read more about it [here](http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/choke/201104/needing-pee-enhances-decision-making-really).
> 
> MAG stands for maximum absorbency garment. These are basically high quality pull-ups worn by astronauts under their space suits during takeoff, space walks, and landings.
> 
> The maximum bladder capacity of an adult is said to be somewhere between 1000 to 1500 milliliters, with the largest comfortable capacity falling at around six hundred milliliters. I put the Soldier on the high end of the scale, because super soldier. The reason his super soldier anatomy still succumbed so quickly is two-fold: first, he was drinking in increments. Drinking in small and continuous increments depletes the body's supply of vasopressin (the hormone that reduces the speed at which urine is produced) more quickly than drinking a large quantity at once. Furthermore, his body's supply of vasopressin was already well depleted by the tests from the two days prior. Yes, I did research the functioning of the urinary system to better write trash. No, I don't know what I'm doing with my life.


End file.
